"For my own part, I have never had a thought 
Which I could not set down in words 
With even more distinctness that which I conceived it. 
There is however a class of fancies of exquisite delicacy 
Which are not thoughts and to which as yet 
I have found it absolutely impossible to adapt to language. 
These fancies arise in the soul, 
Alas how rarely, only at epochs 
Of most intense tranquillity 
When the bodily and mental health are in perfection. 
And those mere points of time 
When the confines of the waking world 
Blend with the world of dreams. 
And so I captured this fancy 
Where all that we see or seem 
Is but a dream within a dream."
"It is our poetry as indefinite sensation 
To which end music is unessential. 
Since the comprehension of sweet sound 
Is our most indefinite conception, music, 
When combined with the pleasure idea, is poetry. 
Music without the idea is simply music. 
Without music, or an intriguing idea, 
Colour becomes pallor, man becomes carcass, 
Home becomes catacomb, 
And the dead are, but for a moment, motionless…"



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